the side man (I know what he would say)

 

"You know, you should just try it." Felix said to me before the last swig of his beer, one lost afternoon on Avenue A. 

I was comfortable being a side man. The guy on the tenor sax, who gazed out at the audience in-between his parts with a secret smile. Every once in a while someone would stop me on the sidewalk. "Hey, are you the horn player from Spitball?" I would nod, a sheepy grin was hidden, a few offhand jokes and I kept going. 

I bought a cheap guitar on eBay. It looked really cool but sounded as sour as forgotten milk. I gave it to my friend Anne. Guitars want to be played, at least I knew that. Then I bought a floor model Danelectro that had been dinged up, and started writing songs. I played them for no one, not even Felix. They were mine, and I hoarded them like weak children. 

That was almost twenty years ago. 

Felix died a few months ago, but I still find myself talking to him. Our last conversation was about the album I had finally recorded, and he spoke to me with such pride - like a father would. We both had children, so many years later. We laughed at ourselves, and the bizarre responsibilities we now carried. Boxed lunches and warm sweaters, the idea of our child riding a pony and how heroic that would feel. 

I miss him terribly. 

Today, six million people will see the first music video from my album, a song about two brothers. One is lost, the other is found. 

I know what he would say.